


Poisoned Apples

by sgamadison



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgamadison/pseuds/sgamadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney discovers an anonymous meme on one of the main servers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poisoned Apples

Rodney winced as he shifted position in his bed. The pounding in his head grew worse with movement. It was just a mild concussion; no one seemed to be particularly worried about it. In Rodney's opinion, even a mild concussion was grounds for concern. After all, it was his _brains_ they were talking about. Brains that had just been thoroughly rattled and slammed about within the confines of his skull.

He adjusted the pillow behind him so that it was propped up against the headboard. Carefully leaning back against it, he reached for his datapad on the nightstand. He wasn't supposed to be reading, but what else could he do? He'd been released from the infirmary hours ago. He was off duty for forty-eight hours and then scheduled for light duty for the rest of the week. Carson had told him that he’d be checking in on Rodney later, and that it was okay if he wanted to take a nap. Rodney had protested at this, as further evidence that Carson’s advice wasn’t to be trusted, but Carson had pointedly out mildly those strictures against not letting victims of head trauma sleep only extended to those who were not responding normally, and as far as Carson could tell, Rodney was. Besides, the CT scan was clean. Rodney had been slightly mollified that Carson had run one without even waiting for him to demand it.

After an hour in his quarters, he was bored out of his mind. He didn't know how John did it. For the most part, John seemed to avoid head traumas—it must be something about a pilot’s natural instinct to shield his eyes or something. He certainly got more than his fair share of injuries, otherwise. He had a nasty habit of putting himself on the front line whenever some particularly dangerous action was called for. In particular, he seemed to have a predilection for penetrating body wounds. Not to mention that time that they had to _kill_ him in order to save him, or the time he almost turned into a bug. Yet despite his injuries, John seemed to spend very little time in recuperation. Or, at least, so it seemed to Rodney. 

Lying in bed now, he wondered if that was really true. John certainly spent as little time as possible in the infirmary post incident, no matter how serious. After walking carefully for a day or two (like his insides might fall out if he moved too quickly), he seemed back to his usual self. Maybe Rodney just wasn’t paying attention, though. It made him feel like a bad friend. On the other hand, it could be that John just healed freakishly fast.

Rodney hoped it would be the same for him.

He doubted it, however. Right now, it felt like his head was gripped in a vise. A constant dull ache. If he moved without thinking, the pain was more like an ice pick stabbing him through the left eye. He really hoped that would go away soon. He had a cold pack, which he gingerly applied to the egg-sized lump on the back of his skull. The thought of putting something ice-cold against his skin made him cringe mentally, but the other members of his team seemed to swear by it often enough. He toughed it out as long as he could. He didn’t even think about icing the place on his face where he’d gotten stitches. Ouch. No, thanks.

John already contacted him once on the radio. The sound of his voice in Rodney's ear had sent a little jolt of throbbing pain through his head. John had asked him to name the President of the United States.

"Please God, tell me it's Martin Sheen."

He had heard John's soft snort. 

"You know," John had drawled. "When you say things like that, people might think you're brain damaged."

Rodney had heard the underlying anger and fear in John’s voice, and had prided himself on the fact that not many other people would have picked up on that fact.

"Forgive me for thinking that Martin Sheen would make a better president than most of the candidates currently campaigning these days." Rodney had sighed. "I'm fine, John. Well, other than the fact that someone's pounding on my head with a hammer. No, not a hammer. Rocks. Sharp, pointy rocks. It's not your fault, though," he added belatedly.

There had been a pause. Whatever John had been thinking, he wasn't going to say it. "Yeah, you totally should've moved your head out of the way when the rocks started falling."

"I'll keep that in mind," Rodney had said dryly. "The next time it's raining rocks."

He could picture it for an instant—the team walking the narrow path cut into the side of the cliff-face, Ronon taking point, with Teyla chatting up the guide, extracting useful information from the local without ever seeming to do so. John, as usual, brought up the rear, with Rodney sandwiched in the middle, eyeing the readout on the scanner.

Rodney was always in the middle, come to think of it.

The only warning they’d had was the slight trickle of dirt and pebbles from above. A tiny cascade of silt and shale before a small stone had bounced down the cliff face and landed at Rodney’s feet. He had stared at it, frowning. Ronon’s head had snapped up like a predator sensing a threat, and he’d shouted, “Move!” He’d dragged the guide along as Teyla had pushed him from behind. She’d flashed a quick, worried glance at Rodney over her shoulder, before concentrating on keeping her footing on the narrow path. 

That look had told Rodney everything he needed to know. He’d instinctively looked up at the ridge of rock above them, only to get grit in his eyes. He didn’t have time to protest; John was shoving him hard from behind, and he’d stumbled forward, eyes tearing as he tried to run.

They didn’t make it. 

Piece of rock had begun to rain down on them. Rodney had been suddenly crushed against the cliff wall, cutting his cheekbone on the sharp edge of a protruding rock.

He’d felt John cover him from behind, shielding him with his own body, protecting Rodney’s head with his arms. He’d felt the impact of a large stone that brushed John’s shoulder in passing, and the grunt that John had made, as intimate as if they were lovers. 

He’d pushed those thoughts out of his mind, clearing his throat with embarrassment.

“Seriously, Sheppard,” he’d said, resorting to the use of last names to establish distance once more. “If I hadn’t lifted my head too soon that rock never would have hit me.”

He’d been worried about John. He couldn’t say that, though, not without getting chewed out for not staying put until John had given him the all-clear—and _especially_ for such a reason as that.

“Stone,” John had said lazily. “Barely more than pebble.”

“Slab,” Rodney had countered, knowing how to play the game. “Really, part of a small boulder.”

John had laughed then, conceding the match to Rodney. He’d had left Rodney with a promise to check in on him later. Rodney had let him go, only to realize that he hadn’t asked about John’s shoulder. It made him feel selfish and small. _Blame it on the concussion_.

Rodney had taken the Tylenol dispensed to him by Carson, and chased it down with a full eight ounces of water. He'd then taken a shower. He'd stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water pound into his aching muscles, washing away the day’s grime. It was one of the rare times when he could say that a shower was infinitely preferable to a tub.

Elizabeth had checked in next. "Just making sure you're okay, Rodney."

Rodney had appreciated that. It was nice of her; it was the kind of thing he expected from Elizabeth. It was one of the things that made her a good leader. Something, he suspected, he wouldn't have handled nearly as well if he had been placed in charge of Atlantis. Not that he wanted that job anymore. Ye gods, the things Elizabeth had to do. He’d much rather do what he did best, which was work in the labs and come up with brilliant plans to save the day when the clock was ticking and everyone was depending on him. Odd to think that where once he would have shrugged and declared something impossible, he’d now learned that necessity made things possible. That the desire to save the lives of his friends could cause him to ignore the rules and bend science to his will. More weird and random thoughts of the concussed, he decided.

If he was completely honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he'd exaggerated a bit the degree of his injuries to Elizabeth. Well, his head really did hurt. Hurt in the kind of way that made it hard to think. And, since thinking was so very important to him, the main thing by which he defined himself, his main role in Atlantis: the exaggeration seemed fair. It was only a tiny part of him that suggested he was being silly. He ignored that part.

He really hoped the pounding in his head was going to go away soon. Rodney knew that a trail of people would be coming by his quarters to make sure that he was okay. If his head continued to hurt like this, the constant interruptions would only make him irritable. Okay, more irritable than usual. Unless he was even more bored than he was now. At least, he _hoped_ others would stop to check in on him.

Of _course_ they would come by. They needed him. They, as in ‘the expedition as a whole.’ Because he was important. Vital to the running of the city. The one that saved their asses nearly every week. Really, when you think about it, he was just as much a hero as John Shepherd. Funny, he somehow got the impression that most people didn't see it that way. He suspected it had something to do with the lack of hair. He patted his hairline gently, the way he would an elderly dog that was doing its best to keep up with the pack.

It was only that little tiny voice that made him doubt in the first place. The same voice that sometimes whispered to him that if he hadn’t been conceived, his parents would never have married. It was the same, nasty little voice that suggested that it didn’t matter how smart he was, or how many awards he achieved; he would never be liked for who he really was. Most days, when he heard that voice, he told it to fuck off. It was just the whimpering remnants of childhood, he told himself. He didn't need his parents’ love or the approval of his peers. He was the chief science officer of an expedition to another galaxy, and working in the lost city of Atlantis. How many people could say that? Just him.

He realized that the data pad had been lying in his lap for some time now. He yawned slightly, wincing with the effort. He'd just checked a few e-mails. That didn't really count as reading. He'd quit if it started to bother his head.

As usual, there were a lot of e-mails begging his attention. He quickly scanned the list. Most of them could be ignored or delegated to other people. However, there was one from Radek that caught his eye.

The subject line read, “Have you seen this?”

Rodney opened the e-mail, smothering another yawn as he did so. A frown creased his brow as he began to scan the post.

"This forum came to my attention," Radek’s e-mail said. "You may want to look into it. I do not know if this is something you need to address or not. I warn you, things said here are not very nice." The e-mail included a link. Rodney nibbled on a thumbnail, but realized there was no way he could ignore something as provocative as that. He clicked on the link.

It directed him to a page titled "Atlantis Anonymous." Rodney briefly scanned the most recent entries, and then went back to the very first one. 

"You've got to be kidding me," Rodney muttered under his breath. The forum clearly stated its intention in the first entry: it was meant to be a place where people could discuss anonymously their thoughts on the Atlantis expedition. Intrigued in spite of himself, Rodney read on.

It didn't take him long to realize that there were too many comments to read in a single sitting. He checked the dates, and realized the forum had been in place since the beginning of their second year in Pegasus. After the events of the siege at the end of their first year. Since they reconnected with Earth. He skipped ahead, and saw that there were pages and pages of entries. Frowning once more, he scanned the titles of various threads and chose a topic at random to read more thoroughly.

Despite the huge volume of comments, after reading for a while, he got the impression that many of the posted statements were being made by the same handful of people. Most of the discussions had to do with executive decisions made since their arrival in Pegasus. Some of the debate was interesting, but the comments were delivered with such a mocking air that even when Rodney agreed with the original statement, something about it got his back up.

Some of the comment threads were simply ridiculous. A back-and-forth between two or three people, full of inside jokes, and not worth following. Some of the comments were openly malicious, critical of Elizabeth's role as expedition leader, and the actions John had taken as commanding officer. At times, Rodney thought he could recognize Kavanagh's style of address, and suspected the statement was his. Another thread, however, seemed completely devoted to running Kavanagh down. Rodney couldn't help it; he found that thread entertaining. It didn't hurt that he agreed with most of it.

He read more than he intended to. It was oddly seductive. Like coming upon a car accident and rubbernecking as he slowed down to creep past. He couldn't help wondering who the commenters were. Who were these people who were so unhappy with how things were being run in Atlantis? Who were these people who apparently didn't want to be here? And if they really felt that way, why didn't they just go back to Earth? It was puzzling.

And amusing. He couldn't deny that. In a sly sort of way, the maliciousness of the statements appealed to his sense of snark. Only, it seemed a bit weaselly to make those statements without being willing to attach a name to them. Rodney was known for plain speaking. Perhaps too plain; it was one of the reasons he was not wildly popular among his colleagues. However, no one ever said he was shy about mincing words or sharing his opinion. Certainly, no one would have cause to wonder if Rodney was being nice to someone’s face, only to be cutting behind their backs. He wondered if the people commenting on this forum would be so free with their statements if it wasn't anonymous. He suspected not.

As he read on, all sense of amusement died away. The statements ran the gamut from cynical to scathing. Quite often, a topic that was brought up for discussion quickly devolved into a personal attack on someone. The more he read, the more upset he became. Nothing, it would seem, was too small a topic. Nothing was off limits. A lot of the discussion threads had to do with how many critical errors the expedition had made since their arrival in Atlantis. They were brutally honest; Rodney gave them that.

The ones that were harder to take were the ones that became personal. He was shocked at some of the subjects that were raised. Questions about Elizabeth's fitness as expedition leader. Speculation as to John's motivation for killing Sumner and taking over the military. Irritation with the Athosians as a whole, and Teyla in particular. Okay, Rodney would be the first to admit that sometimes, (okay, a lot of times) Teyla's seeming serenity was annoying. But, as annoying as it was, he knew how hard-won that serenity was.

He got sucked into a thread discussing Radek, and found himself growing uncomfortable as he read things that he might have thought or said himself at one time or another. Collectively, the glee with which the anonymous commenters laid into Radek made him squirm just a little. Sure, Radek was an annoying little fuzzy-haired man who’d raised _pigeons_ back on Earth, for crying out loud, but he was also Rodney’s right hand man. He could think on his feet almost as fast as Rodney himself, and most days it only required a small prompting on Rodney’s part for Radek to reach the same conclusion that Rodney had already done. Rodney thought of the times that he’d been less than kind to Radek, and it made him feel dirty somehow.

Then there were the threads about Elizabeth. Comments on her appearance as the expedition went on. How tired she looked. Whether she had an eating disorder. Whether or not longer hair suited her thin face better. Whether she was a closet alcoholic. Speculation on her sex life. People couldn’t decide if she was an Ice Queen, or banging John on the side, or a lesbian, all three or none at all. Rodney had to admit, his lizard-brain took over for a second as he pictured Elizabeth with various other amazingly hot woman in Atlantis, but then he remembered how seriously she took her position as expedition leader. And her dashed hopes of having Stephen or Simon or whatever his name was come on board the expedition as part of the medical team. Again, he felt like a terrible friend and colleague for going there even for a second.

Several times, his fingers itched to jump in and lacerate the commenters with his opinion. His hand even hovered over the option of logging out so he could do so, though he quickly realized that there was no way he could disguise his own, distinctive way of speaking and writing. What he _could_ do was backtrack to the sources. Taking the laptop off the nightstand, he started the necessary actions to identify the IP addresses of the ‘anonymous’ commenters. No one could stay hidden from Rodney as long as he was in charge of Atlantis.

He was unable to stop reading the forum, however. It was like being stranded on the ocean with nothing to drink and giving in to the temptation of drinking the salt water—only to find yourself thirstier than ever. He read with rapt, if horrified, fascination until he came across the first thread about him. Its comments were truly shocking. A quick search of the site revealed that a _lot_ of the threads were about him. His arrogance. His overconfidence. His belief that he knew more than anyone else. The fact that he was so frequently demeaning to his colleagues, and that he was so certain that no one could possibly be as smart as he was. The vitriol with which he was discussed made his blood run cold and his face flame hot. It was appalling. He wanted nothing more than to jump into the discussion and blast everyone with his hurt outrage. Oh, those smug commenters. Just let them, for two seconds, have to deal with his responsibilities. Let them be the ones on the line every day holding the city together, shoring up their defenses, making sure they all stay alive to see the next dawn.

It was even worse when the attacks became personal and focused on his appearance. His receding hairline. His weight gain over the years since they’d been in Pegasus. Rodney shifted the datapad off his stomach and poked at that offending body part. Okay, so it was a little doughy in the middle. Damn it, try working sixteen-hour days, when there was a crisis of some sort cropping up every few minutes, and lunch, more often than not, was a power bar and a pudding cup. Try falling into bed after midnight, and then be too wired on caffeine and sugar to sleep, only to finally drift into a restless doze, full of vaguely threatening images that he would only partially remember in the gray light of dawn. Yeah, let’s see someone make a healthy diet and an exercise plan fit into _that_ schedule. He burned with resentment as he continued to read.

The discussion of his personal life was the worst. Apparently, people found his manner so off-putting and offensive, that they questioned poor Katie Brown’s intelligence and sense of self-worth for even considering dating him. Some even speculated that his obvious attraction to a certain type of woman was overcompensation on his part, and that he was probably gay. Reading that made Rodney’s face heat up with embarrassment, to the point that his ears itched, and he was sure this couldn’t be good for his blood pressure.

He couldn’t help but think about how awkward it had been the few times he and Katie had sex. Could Katie possibly be one of the commenters here? The thought that someone close to him could have so betrayed him made him catch his breath. His pulse pounded in his ears. He had to take several deep breaths before he regained control of his emotions.

Still, he read on. The sunlight from the balcony grew more golden as the afternoon passed, until the beams slanted across his bed toward sunset. He could deal with the comments about himself. Really, he'd been hearing that sort of thing his entire life. It was nothing new. It was appalling and upsetting, but since it was also _familiar_ , it was easy to dismiss the commenters as whiners who were just jealous of his superior intelligence and skills. That’s how it had always been, as long as he could remember.

What was harder to deal with were the discussions concerning his friends. Yes, he'd be the first to admit, they'd made mistakes on their arrival in Pegasus, horrific mistakes out of ignorance and hubris. Still, the discussion of policies and judgment calls were easier to take than the personal attacks on the people he had come to call family. Something had to be done. This forum was a canker, a malignancy that needed to be wiped out.

The buzzer on his door sounded. Irritated, he looked up from the datapad. He’d sat still for far too long and his neck protested at the movement of muscles that were even stiffer than when he’d first laid down. His voice snapped with pain and annoyance. "Come in." 

The door to his quarters opened. Teyla balanced a tray in one hand and a small basket in the other. 

"I thought you might like something to eat," she said with a smile. The tray contained a covered plate of food and a steaming mug. The rich smell of coffee assailed his nostrils. Rodney laid aside the datapad, and waved Teyla into the room.

"Thanks," he said. "That's really nice of you. Of course, I would've expected nothing less."

Teyla smiled. "That is a very sweet of you to say, Rodney."

She set the basket down on his desk and crossed over to his bed. Rodney tossed the pad to one side and balanced the tray on his lap. Teyla took the cover and flipped it over so that the condensation within wouldn’t drip on the food as she carried it back to the desk.

She returned to hitch one hip up on the side of the bed to sit beside Rodney, and he realized with a feeling of pleasant warmth, just how right and natural it was for her to do that. Something very much like love bloomed in his chest, a welcome relief after the hours of seething anger, and he felt like the Grinch when his heart expanded.

She’d brought all of his favorites: comfort food without question or censure of his typical diet. Mashed tormack in all its purple glory. Not-meatloaf. Fresh yeast rolls, the tops of which gleamed with melted butter. Vela grass stewed into a limp, dark green mass, dusted with glazed, sweet hartan nuts, which took all the bitterness of the vela away. 

It was a pity that he wasn’t that hungry. He poked his fork around at the items on his tray, ate the rolls and most of the tormack. “Sorry,” he said, when he saw the concern in Teyla’s eyes. “I don’t feel much like eating.”

“Have you reported this very serious symptom to Dr. Beckett?” Teyla sounded solemn, but the slight smile on her face gave her away.

“Funny.” Rodney was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Teyla took his tray without asking and carried it to the desk. She stooped to pick up the small, hand-woven basket and returned to the side of Rodney’s bed.

“Lean forward,” she commanded.

One had a tendency to do what Teyla said. There was steel in that velvet-soft voice. Rodney closed his eyes and leaned forward. He felt something being placed behind him, and when Teyla gently pushed on his shoulder, he leaned back into a soft source of heat—some sort of pad that radiated warmth and smelled of new-mown hay and wet leaves. The heat soaked into the muscles of his back, oozing the tension out of him that he had not known was there. He felt protected, cared for, and suddenly sleepy. He yawned so hard that his jaw popped.

“What is this?” He heard the frown in Teyla’s voice and opened his eyes to see her holding the datapad. He reached for it, but she pulled it away. With the thin-lipped disapproval of a school teacher, Teyla turned the datapad off and placed it on the nightstand. “You should not be reading such trash.”

“I only found out about it today.” Rodney felt compelled to explain, to make her understand that he’d never have started on the forum without cause. It was weird how defensive he felt, as though she’d caught him in a lie. “Radek sent me an email, and I thought I should check it out.”

“Dr. Zelenka should know better than to trouble you with such petty nonsense when you are not well.”

Rodney thought about arguing—when else was Radek supposed to call something this disturbing to his attention? When he was busy saving the city? When every cell in his brain needed to be focused on the task at hand and not distracted by what was essentially a bunch of malicious gossipers? He didn’t know what to say and was too tired to try and come up with something appropriate. “What should I do?”

The question startled him. Though he valued Teyla’s opinion in certain matters, he rarely asked for it. Generally, he assumed that she would see his need and volunteer what he needed to know when he needed to know it.

Teyla seemed surprised as well, but then she gave him one of her radiant smiles. It was there and gone in a flash as she frowned again. “This forum is a poisoned apple. If you are not careful, it will taint your entire experience with your colleagues here in Atlantis. You will doubt what is being said to you is spoken in good faith. You will question what is said behind your back.”

“I already am! Now, I mean. Now that I know it exists. We need to shut it down! It’s mean, and nasty, and spiteful, and I’m saying that as someone who isn’t always the nicest person himself.”

Teyla smiled briefly, which was somehow encouraging. “You wear your emotions on your face, and your passions on your sleeve, as I believe your people say. No one ever has any doubt as to how you feel about something or someone, Rodney.”

Rodney sincerely hoped that was just gross hyperbole on her part. Especially the ‘someone’ part.

“You know what I mean, Teyla. You said it yourself, it’s a poisoned apple. It has to be rooted out and destroyed.”

Teyla shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “Perhaps that was not the best analogy. It is more like a pernicious weed that threatens to take over the garden. The more you try to uproot it, or kill it, the more runners it sends out. Best to let the sunlight wither it.”

“Um, okay, that makes no sense at all.” Rodney knew he sounded grumpy, but damn it, he was tired.

Teyla leaned in and lightly soothed his forehead. “Ignore it, Rodney. It feeds in the darkness. It thrives on attention. It can only harm those who actually read it. Like one of the books of dark magic in the Harry Potter stories.” Teyla seemed pleased with her final analogy, and Rodney had to leave it at that.

He found himself oddly reluctant to see her go. When she began packing the tray for a return to the mess, he blurted out, “Tell me a story.”

He couldn’t have been more shocked than if he’d asked Teyla to sleep with him. Teyla, however, smiled her wide smile, and sat down on the bed beside him again. “What would you like to hear?” she asked.

His mind went blank for a moment. He had no idea why he’d asked for a story in the first place, as though he was some child seeking solace and stability from the adults in his world. “Tell me about your favorite comfort food.” He was embarrassed by his request.

Teyla didn’t seem to mind. Her expression softened; she was obviously recalling something from her past. “My father used to make the best humra.” Her face took on a dreamy expression.

“Humra?” Rodney questioned.

“Humra.” Teyla corrected his pronunciation. “It is a traditional Athosian dish. It is made from humra root. Boiled and mashed with milk, cheese, and spices, it is then baked in a clay oven for hours. You could smell it throughout the whole village. I could eat an entire pan of it all by myself. That, and mishthratik pie.” Teyla laughed suddenly, a bright, sparkling sound. “Mishthratik is a seasonal vegetable, similar to tormack, but only growing during the fall harvest. I would eat mishthratik morning, noon, and night, until I was sick of it. And then the following year, I could not wait to eat it again.”

Rodney shared a smile with her, glad to know that Teyla had something in common with him after all. 

Later, he could not remember Teyla leaving. He’d been speaking to her one moment, and then the warmth and the fading light had somehow caused him to doze off. When he awoke, Teyla was gone, and dusk was nigh. Someone was at the door. The raucous sound of the buzzer had woken him abruptly, and he was jangled by it. “What?” he demanded of the person at the door.

The door opened without further ado. 

“Just checking on you.” Ronon’s grin was blinding. It occurred to Rodney, not for the first time, that for a Pegasus society, the Satedans must have had good dentists. Or maybe it was all that clean living—like the Osmonds. He suddenly pictured Donny and Marie wielding laser canons and shook his head abruptly, regretting that action immediately.

“You okay?” Ronon loomed over the bed, frowning at him.

“I’m fine,” Rodney snapped, “for someone who probably has a subdural hematoma developing as we speak. Give me a hand, I need to pee.” He sat up stiffly and swung his legs out of the bed, holding his hand up to Ronon.

Ronon raised an eyebrow but grasped Rodney by the wrist, tugging him to his feet with rather more care than Rodney expected. Rodney made use of the facilities and returned to the main room to find Ronon silhouetted by the light of the setting sun as he stared pensively out the balcony doors.

Rodney joined him to look out upon the sea. The red-gold light glinted off the surface, almost searing in its intensity. It brought tears to Rodney’s eyes and he turned away. It had nothing to do with the unbearable beauty of the city on the water. Nothing.

Ronon cast him an odd, sideways glance. “Teyla says you found that place on the computer where people say mean things about other people.”

“Not all of them are mean.” Rodney felt the need to qualify.

Ronon lifted his lip, showing clearly what he thought of that position.

“How do _you_ feel about it?” Rodney was curious. 

Ronon rested his hand lightly on his holstered weapon. “Some of it’s true. Some of it’s not. I know the difference. I’d like to see some of those people say it to my face though.” He smiled, toothy and feline. Rodney shuddered. It was not a very nice smile.

He started when he felt Ronon’s grip under his elbow, guiding him back to bed. He must have closed his eyes again. He didn’t remember. 

“You should get some rest.” Ronon’s voice was a soft growl. Rodney wanted to protest; he’d been in bed all day. Resisting Ronon, however, was like resisting the Borg, a futile waste of time. He was trundled back to bed before he knew it.

When he awoke next, it was because a cool breeze was blowing in off the balcony, billowing the sheer curtains inward in an undulating wave, much like the sea that he could hear murmuring outside. He shivered, not an unpleasant sensation, but not something he want to experience all night either. A thin blanket covered him. He didn’t remember pulling it over him, but he might have done so in his sleep. He lifted his head to look over his shoulder at the balcony, hissing with pain when he did so.

“I’ll get it.” The voice came out of the darkness, startling him. Rodney gasped and rolled over on his back, clutching at his chest, while at the same time reaching with his other hand for a weapon. He came up with his watch, which was perfectly useless, but he held it up in front of his chest anyway.

“Relax.” The drawl was reassuringly familiar. 

Rodney felt his entire body go limp with relief, even as a tiny spurt of anger motivated him to speak sharply. “Jeezus, Sheppard, what are you trying to do, kill me here?” 

He could now make out John’s form as he sprawled in the chair that he’d pulled up alongside the bed. John was slouched in the seat, his long legs propped up on the end of the bed. Rodney didn’t know how he could sit that way. Rodney’s back would be screaming in agony after just a few minutes. He put the watch back on the nightstand. The glowing dial said it was after midnight.

“No, that was this afternoon.” John’s voice was mocking, and before Rodney could call him on it, he folded up his length and got to his feet. He crossed to the balcony doors, and like Ronon earlier, stood gazing out at the sea. The moon was high in the sky now, silver and bright, casting a cold, hard light into the room. 

Rodney longed to join him there. He thought about it—but John Sheppard in many ways was a spookier creature than Ronon. If Ronon was a lion, surveying the veldt, John was a wolf, ready to blend back into the forest at the first sign that anyone had acknowledged his presence.

Rodney stayed where he was.

The moonlight loved John. It caressed his angles and edges; it stood him out in sharp relief from among the other shadows in Rodney’s room. After a long moment, during which Rodney had to bite his lip to keep from speaking, John reached through the filmy curtains and shut the balcony doors. The doors slid smoothly closed with a small snick of sound. Some undefined emotion stirred in Rodney, but he did not know what it meant or what to do with it.

He did nothing.

John eventually turned and came back to the chair. He sat down with an air of caution, and slowly leaned back, much as Kirk would do in the command chair of the Enterprise. Rodney started to say something snarky about that, but then his brain caught up with him as John’s words sank in.

“You didn’t try to kill me this afternoon. You tried to protect me. With your _body_.” Now it was Rodney’s turn to let the anger and fear run rampant into his voice.

John flipped his fingers in a negligent little move. As surely as he’d spoken, Rodney knew that he meant, _yeah, well…_

They remained in silence for a moment longer. Finally, John spoke. “Teyla says you found the anonymous forum.”

“Yes.” Rodney spat the word as though it was acid, burning his tongue. “I take it you’ve seen the crap that’s on there?”

“Seen it?” John’s voice was mocking and wry, the tone that Rodney hated most. “Hell, McKay, I _write_ most of it myself.”

Rodney felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. As though he’d been hit in the solar plexus, the breath literally wouldn’t come. It was as though his world had been knocked off its moorings, as though the laws of physics had been refuted, and that everything he knew was false, with the power to destroy him.

Unaware of Rodney’s reaction, John went on. “The worst stuff about me, that is,” he said. “Figure it’s the best way to keep an eye on what’s going on and to redirect stuff away from things that really matter.”

Like someone recovering from vertigo, Rodney’s center of balance was suddenly restored. “So, you, um, only post about yourself? As though you were someone else?”

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement brought him into a beam of moonlight, and Rodney could see the concern on his face. “Jeez, Rodney. You don’t think I’d bad-mouth anyone _else_ , do you?”

His words acted as a sluice to release Rodney’s thoughts. “No, no, of course not, only, you know, I was just surprised, that’s all. I would have thought you would have either shut the thing down or ignored it completely. So, it came as a surprise that you are actually contributing to it. In a weird, back-handed kind of way. I mean, don’t you think it’s kind of obvious when you libel yourself like that?”

“Slander,” John corrected.

“Libel,” Rodney snapped. “Libel is the printed version; slander is when it is verbal.”

“I think the definition of slander could be upheld here.” John’s voice was mild. He leaned back, in the shadows once more. “Could you tell which statements were mine?”

Rodney chewed on his lower lip. “Not precisely, no. But I’d be willing to guess the ones in which questions were raised about the waking of the Wraith, and the killing of Sumner.”

John got very still, which was how Rodney knew he was right. 

Rodney pulled up screen on the laptop where he’d traced the IP addresses. Really, connecting the dots had been ridiculously easy. People had assumed that because they were posting anonymously that no one could tell who they were, but some voices were too distinct to be hidden and certain comments belied the actions of others. “I’ve got the names of the moderators right here. Along with the main contributors.” 

“Show me.”

Rodney handed over the laptop. In the cool glow from the light of the viewscreen, John looked tired. He deleted the data without looking at it and closed the laptop, plunging the room into darkness once more.

“Why the hell did you do that?” The anger that Rodney had for the members of the forum came lashing out at John.

“Because we’re better than that. You tell me what good it would do to out these people, McKay?”

“They’re a canker and a blight on the expedition and they need to be exposed.” Rodney folded his arms over his chest. He had a feeling what was coming next.

John just shook his head. “You’d destroy the expedition. Everything we have here. Everything we’ve worked for. You tell everyone who’s been saying these ugly things about them behind their backs and no one will ever be able to work together in Atlantis again. You might as well toss a hand grenade into the Gate room.”

“And so what, we just let them get away with it? Because we care about the expedition and have a sense of honor, we’re going to let people who don’t poison things for everyone else?

“They can only hurt you if you let them, Rodney. They’re just venting. In the end, what they say doesn’t matter.”

“What about the personal stuff?” Rodney asked. “Doesn’t it bug you when people speculate what happened between you and Chaya, or Teer? Or call you an asshole? Doesn’t it piss you off when people assume you’re sleeping with Teyla, or Elizabeth, or claim that you’re gay?”

“No.” John’s voice held steel just the same. “Because I know I’m not sleeping with Teyla or Elizabeth. And because I _am_ gay.”

Rodney sucked in his breath and held it for a long moment. When he finally started speaking again, he couldn’t stop. “Goddamn it, Sheppard! You mean all this time I’ve been pining for something I didn’t think I could have, when I really could have had it all along? That is, of course…” he suddenly backtracked, “provided you feel the same way about me, that is?”

He didn’t need light to see John’s grin. He could feel it from across the room. He thought of all the times John had been there for him, and the way John protected him on missions, the way he’d protected Rodney earlier today. He didn’t need a verbal declaration of love. He’d been given the John Sheppard declaration every day since they’d first met only he’d been too blind to see it for what it was. 

“Get over here,” he commanded. He motioned imperiously with one hand. “I’m not up for much hanky panky, but kissing I can do.”

“Hanky panky?” John’s voice was smooth like aged whiskey. It did bad, wicked things to Rodney’s cock. When John slid into the bed beside him, Rodney realized that he’d been freezing to death his entire life and had never noticed it before now. “Where _do_ you learn such grown up words, McKay?”

“Yes. Hanky…” he broke off when John’s breath ghosted over his neck, making him tremble. No, _shiver_ , damn it. It was simply a reaction to hot, moist breath on his cool skin. “Panky.” He finished his train of thought with effort, when John’s hand slid under the blanket and across his belly.

Rolling carefully, he turned toward John. Warm lips brushed his own, and he opened his mouth hungrily, unable to be polite, to wait for an invitation. He could feel John’s mouth curve into a smile, and Rodney knew that everything was going to be all right.

Later, after he’d been kissed thoroughly, and had kissed back in return, with a promise of better things to come once he’d recovered from this stupid concussion, thank you very much, he found himself dozing off once more. Never in a millions years would he have believed that this moment would have come, even if you’d asked him about his deepest, darkest fantasies. He thought about bending science to his will, and altering the laws of space and time. A chuckle burst out of him.

“What?” John’s hand moved lazily on Rodney’s chest. Somehow, they’d both ended up under the covers. Rodney had finally recalled that John was injured too, and he’d shifted to make room without complaint.

“I was just thinking,” Rodney said, the humor in his voice bubbling up from deep within.

“Oh yeah?” John’s hand grew still.

Rodney reached up and covered it with his own. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m thinking we owe the moderators of Atlantis Anonymous a helluva thank you.”

~fin


End file.
